


The Dread Pirate Cummabund

by Roadstergal



Category: Princess Bride (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An odd fancy hit me to cross over The Princess Bride and Sherlock.  An ex-army doctor takes a sea voyage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kahvi for the beta.

Dr. John Watson, ex-British army, current private practitioner of the medical arts, did not like ships.

They were simply unhealthy, and in just about every way one could conceive. The risk of infectious disease, for one. They bred in an infected individual, quietly, often for some time, before bursting forth, and if that individual happened to be on a ship, where avoidance was practically impossible, almost the entirety of the ship's company was sure to be infected. The sanitary conditions - or lack thereof - helped not one bit, and the food tended to be overrun with parasites in short order. This was before the risk of scuvy even reared its spotty, toothless head.

But this was the most rapid and direct means of travel from London to Bordeaux, from whence had come a telegram from the wife of an old Army comrade, requesting his services in such desperate terms that he felt he had no option. He packed lightly, turned his practice over to his assistant, and set forth.

He had no idea that it would be parasites of a rather larger and more bepierced and tattooed sort that would run this particular voyage.

* * *

The cry of "Pirates!" disturbed John from his reverie, but not with too much concern. What pirates would be marauding this close to the mainland, where British navel ships frequently roamed? He did tear his eyes away from the endless (and somewhat sickening) roll of the waves to look up at the crow's nest. The wide-eyed boy was gesturing to an only slightly older officer below, who strode across the deck, spyglass in hand.

The outline of a ship that the officer looked at could have been anything, really, but John noted how the young officer started, slammed the glass closed, and huried belowdecks.

Prudence dictated John's next move, which was down to his cabin. He did not have his service revolver with him - he had left it back at his lodgings in London, not anticipating any need - but did have his knife, and it was large, clean, and sharp. If it came to fighting in the passenger hold, he would be badly out-armed, but he would not surrender without a fight.


	2. Chapter 2

Cummabund was, generally speaking, pleased.

Yes, it was risky sailing this close to England, but the ocean was a good-sized body of water - even here, where it began to be pinched between England and mainland Europe. A metaphor about _pinched_ and _compressed_ and _bounded_ fluttered around the edges of Cummabund's mind, but he waved it away. The man he was supposed to be was not a man of a poetic bent.

"Any casualties?" he asked his first mate, Jacob.

The man scratched his thinning hair. "Got the guards wi'out much of a fight," he wheezed hoarsely through his broken and stained teeth. "'arris took a ball to the shoulder, but just scrapes aside." Jacob paused. "But some bloke gave us a bit a trouble in the passenger cabin, like."

"One of the _passengers_ gave you some trouble?" Cummabund asked, arching a curious eyebrow.

"Yeah. 'E 'ad a big ol' knife, cut Simon and Gaz up but good before we took 'im down. Gaz was about ready to kill 'im there, but I broke it up. Figgered he might be good for some ransom money, what?"

"Good thinking, Jacob," Cummabund replied, and the man grinned in appreciation. "How are we on the 'pillaging' side of the equation?"

"Not more'n fifteen minutes more, I'd say, and we'll 'ave it stripped down but good."

Cummabund nodded his satisfaction. Speed was their best defense. "Cut the ropes, tie up the crew, growl at the passengers. We want to be long-gone before they can set sail again. The hostage - put him in my quarters, there's a good fellow. I'm curious to meet him."

Jacob obviously took something a little more sadistic than Cummabund intended from this expressed curiosity, if his evil chuckle was any judge. That suited Cummabund perfectly. Reputation was everything, when one was the Dread Pirate Roberts.


	3. Chapter 3

All in all, John thought, he should be happy just to be alive. He could not bring himself to feel terribly grateful, however.

He had done little enough when the pirates burst into the passenger's quarters; he had barely inconvenienced them. The leader of that particular group would not have hesitated to kill him for just that inconvenience, he could tell - but the ugly short fellow with the bad teeth - not the captain, but a man of some rank, the first mate, perhaps? - who followed behind had a more level head.

So, John was alive - but shackled, his wrists clamped in manacles that were a bit too tight. Despite his stature, he did not have a child's wrists, and his fingers were rapidly becoming numb.

He shifted on the chair he had been strapped to with rope, looking around the room. It was basic and clean, as a seaman's room should be. A tightly made bed was tucked into the far corner from the door, with a locked chest at its foot. A simple desk was securely bolted to the foor near the chair he was strapped to. A lantern was affixed to the ceiling.

Having exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the cabin, he struggled against the ropes holding him to the chair. It was no use - they did not move an iota.

Footsteps had been echoing past the cabin the entire time he had been there, but one set in particular paused outside of the door. John gauged the distance between his unrestrained legs and the door. It was too great for him to do anything unless the person about to enter stepped closer than the doorway...

The person who opened the door was... surprising. The ocean was not a kind mistress, and those who spent their lives on it generally did not look as healthy as this man did. He was tall and thin under his over-dramatic black clothing, but it was the slenderness of ropey muscle, not the gaunt frame of malnutrition. His face had startlingly few lines, despite the pale red hair that betrayed his sensitivity to sun. His eyes were clear and alert, and when he smiled, his teeth were clean and straight.

"What have we here?" His voice was startlingly deep. He stepped inside and closed the door, carefully staying out of range of a kick from his prisoner. He cocked his head when John did not reply. "You'd be well advised to talk. I could just lock you up below with no food or water until you're more pliable, but I think we'd both be happier if I did not have to bother. Let's start with introductions. I am known as the Dread Pirate Roberts. You may have heard of me."

John had, indeed, heard of him - or at least, had heard the name. Any ragged pirate, however, can take a _name_...

"I assure you, I am not taking another man's reputation." Roberts's grin was almost mischevious. "Now tell me a little about yourself. Your name, perhaps?"

John could see no point in withholding harmless information. "John Watson."

"And how do you make your living?"

"Not by piracy," John replied. His wrists were aching, and his temper was short.

"I think I like you, John Watson." Roberts's grin did not waver. "Let me try to determine this. You have the bearing of a soldier, but dress as a civilian. You don't appear comfortable on a ship, so army, rather than the Queen's Navy." Roberts took off the belt on which was strung his cutlass and pistol, placing it on the bed beside him. "I don't believe you are a good prospect for ransom. Your clothes are worn and were not terribly expensive to start with, and you booked a very cheap passage indeed. My men will have you killed when they find out." Roberts leaned back on his long arms, looking at John levelly. "Why don't you tell me what you do?"

"I'm a doctor," John replied, reluctantly.

"Well." Roberts leaned forward. "This has possibilities."


	4. Chapter 4

"Try to keep it clean and dry," John said, ignoring the man's snort of laughter, "and away from seawater." The man gave another snort as John snipped off the end of the stitch.

"Clean 'n dry! Away from salt! Tell me another one..." He watched John quickly tie a bandage around the freshly stitched wound, then stumped out, shaking his head.

If there was any consolation to being the ship's doctor for pirates, John considered, it was that they seldom followed his post-care advice, and frequently had infections and scars to show for it. He had already amputated one gangrenous finger that had been split open by an over-eager yank on rough hempen ropes, when the seaman in question had ignored the same caution he had just given to Jacob. He was sure more would follow.

John left the compact room he had been given as an operating theatre, and wandered through the ship, pushed aside and sworn at when he got in the way of any of the crew. There was one noticeable absence in the little operating room - he had yet to treat any prisoners, and this galled him. They had conducted two raids since he had been brought onboard, and before both of them, he had been unceremoniously dragged from the small quarters he shared with a shy young cabin-boy and locked in a storage closet until they were well clear. Yes, they had merely tied up the passengers and crew on John's own ship, but that did not mean it was standard practice. The Dread Pirate Roberts had a reputation, after all.

Perhaps John should take some kind of moral stand, but the pirates would hardly be any less lethal without him. They would merely have larger and deeper scars, and their amputations would be less enjoyable. The problem was, he was deathly bored. There was no reading material to speak of on board - Jacob had laughed loud and long when John had asked - and little for him to do aside from stare at the waves and feel sick. Treating the injuries and sicknesses that were a regular part of life onboard a ship was all he had to occupy his mind.

John's wanderings took him past the captain's quarters, and he paused, surprised. The unmistakable sounds of "Non più andrai," delivered in a perfect baritone, drifted out from under the doorway. What kind of pirate captain sings Mozart?

The door opened, and John realized that he was standing directly outside of it, mouth hanging open like a daft fish. "Oh, hello, Doctor," Roberts said, grinning. "How can I help you?"

"I was just..." John paused. What had he been doing? "Walking."

Roberts's eyes almost seem to glitter in the dim below-decks light as he considered John. "Bored, are we?"

Perhaps snapping at a pirate captain was not the most intelligent of strategies, but John was a bit at the end of his rope. "Of course I'm bloody well bored. Nothing to do when some crewmember doesn't have the sniffles or a paper cut; nothing to read, nowhere to go."

Roberts cocked his head, considering, then stepped back. "Come in for a moment," he said, and closed the door once John did, locking it carefully. "Let me show you something."


	5. Chapter 5

Cummabund had a book open in his lap, but he was not reading it. He had stopped reading some time back; partly because his preferred position for reading was lying on his bed, which was currently occupied, and partly because the man occupying it was much more interesting than the book (which, granted, was one he had read previously).

It had been a whim, showing John his private collection of books, but it had worked out rather well for him; it had brought him regular and most excellent company. John was clearly in need of intellectual stimulation, and read and discussed voraciously. He also seemed to enjoy stretching out full-length on Cummabund's bed; given that he normally slept in a rough hammock too small for him, this was not surprising. His roommate Jess only talked to Cummabund, beyond the basic necessities of communication, and John likely therefore did not know the history of his own sleeping arrangements. Jess's twin brother Jim had been swept away in a fierce storm some three months back, leaving Jess with night terrors that woke the men near him with his screams. Cummabund had been considering leaving the boy in port, but Jess had confided to him that the terrors had decreased in intensity and frequency substantially since the older man had taken over Jim's old hammock. The men had stopped complaining, as well, and so Cummabund was generally well pleased with the situation.

"I suppose I just don't understand the parasitic lifestyle," John sighed, continuing their discussion.

"Every lifestyle is parasitic," Cummabund smiled. "We all take."

"The rest of us give something _back_ when we take."

"As do I." Cummabund nodded. "Every empire needs an enemy, to keep the populace united and strong, to give the children something to _not_ grow up to be, to give the men tales to tell, to make law and order desirable. With no enemies, the populace gets restless."

"So that's your excuse for the robbery and the raping and the killing? Social cohesiveness?" John looked at Cummabund incredulously.

For some reason, that stung. There was no reason why it should - he had heard it often enough. He had even groomed that part of his reputation. "I countenance no raping and killing."

"Your reputation is built on it."

Cummabund sighed, leaning back in his chair. "That's the curious thing about reputations. They require so little to maintain." He gazed levelly at John. "Ships disappear with no help from pirates. If I pillage a ship, and tell the passengers that _this_ time I am feeling merciful - then those missing ships become my deadly legacy. My men are not bloodthirsty; I pay them well, I treat them with decency, and the rest follows."

"You're the damnedest pirate I've ever come across," John frowned, his book lying forgotten on his stomach. "How did you get into this business?"

Cummabund laughed, happily. "I stowed away on a merchant ship when I was just a lad. I wanted to be a seaman, to sail the ocean and see the world! By the impish designs of Lady Luck, while I was still hidden in the storage room, the vessel was seized by pirates. I was conscripted, and I... worked my way up through the ranks. Rather successfully, as it turned out."

John nodded, uncertainly, and picked up his book again, clearly processing all he had just heard.

Cummabund watched him for a moment before picking up his own book. Even after doing so, however, the words danced in front of his eyes, and he could not concentrate.

Why _did_ John's opinion of him matter so greatly? Why did Cummabund enjoy his company so much? Well, the answer to those questions was clear, was it not? Cummabund was infatuated.

Being a pirate meant one had a unique view into the outcasts of society, and one set of such outcasts in particular had been eye-opening. Cummabund had always wondered why the boys around him made so much of the beauty of women, when the beauty he saw was in his friend's bodies; the strength of their arms, the sharpness of their jaws, the delight of their bouncing members when they played on riverbanks in the nude. Yet this was never spoken of - and he had, as a pirate, found the answers to that quandary. Those who love men instead of women, he discovered, were outcast from society.

It was therefore then a stroke of good fortune, as far as he was concerned, that he had found himself an occupation as a pirate. He had been an outcast before he had even known there was such a thing.

He had never acted on his desires; he had no particular desire to become entangled. He had his ship and his crew and the wide open ocean; what more could a man want?

A kidnapped doctor, it seemed.

Yes, he was attracted to John. The man's mind was appealing and alluring enough, and these sessions of quiet reading or discussion were the highlights of Cummabund's week. But two days ago... yes. It had been about midnight, the weather gentle and warm, and Cummabund took the opportunity for a walk around the ship; he was careful to be an observant captain, and was as much in the bilge-rooms or the storerooms as he was in the prow or his cabin.

John had been outside, washing his clothing; he had only one set, as he had no interest in piratical attire, and was nude as he cleaned it. Cummabund had to step behind the mast and take a breath. The sight had been magnificent; the man's chest bare in the moonlight, solid and smooth; his head bent over, his fingers as clever with this work as they were with surgery. His legs were like young trees, and between them, his cock swung lazily as the ship gently rocked.

Cummabund had run back to his cabin, overcome with desires that had never gripped him so strongly before.

He bore no illusions that John shared his desires, and so, this was the limit of their interaction. Yet the fantasy tickled the back of his mind, now. John, shackled just as he had been when Cummabund had first set eyes on the man; his arms behind him, his body bound to the chair. Only now, Cummabund would have his men strip the good doctor naked before leaving him tied up, like a Christmas present, in Cummabund's cabin. John would protest, but there would be nothing he could do; he would have to merely watch as Cummabund knelt between his legs, teasing that lovely cock to full awakening with his mouth as John struggled helplessly, running his lips around it, teasing it with his tongue, until John gasped and spilled...

"I should be going," John sighed, regretfully closing his book.

"Oh.. yes." Cummabund blinked.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a night like any other - John was folded slightly uncomfortably into the too-small hammock, nude, with a rough blanket over him; any privacy or shame he felt on that score had quickly fallen away when he discovered the other crewmembers thought of 'privacy' as one of those silly things that soft, rich people had.  
Except when it came to their captain, who commanded perfect respect for his privacy among his crew. Many was the time, now, that John had spent an afternoon or evening in Roberts's cabin, and any ship's business had waited on a knock and an invitation to enter. Roberts was an exception in every way, it seemed. A merciful, intellectual, idealistic pirate - John couldn't see him lasting ten minutes even as a crewmember on a ship of Her Majesty's Navy. How had he survived under the command of a more typical pirate captain?

These stray thoughts became fuzzy and diffuse as John let the fatigue of the day's work and the gentle rocking of the ship lull him to sleep.

He awoke abruptly from dreams of solid land under his feet by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Something pierced his skin, striking a rib with a shock that went though his body. He instinctively cried out, but his voice was muffled by a rag that was being jammed in his mouth. A soft voice said a very filthy word indeed, and another sharp pain in his other side - something slipped between two ribs this time, cutting muscle...

Instinct kicked in, and John pused out of the hammock, falling back on the wooden floor with a hard thud. He looked up, and in the dim moonlight that trickled through the small porthole in the wall, he saw Jess, sprawled halfway across the hammock; a knife glinted in his right hand, and the heavy shadows twisted the scowl on his face into something almost inhuman.

John touched his chest; he had two good-sized gashes, and they were bleeding profusely. He considered crying for help - but this was just a boy attacking him, it would be ridiculous for a grown man to call for help! When Jess staggered off of the hammock and charged at John again, the man was ready, and grabbed the boy's wrist, twisting it until he dropped the knife, then grabbed the boy around the waist, holding him tightly.

Jess fought with the strength of mania, however, and John found himself becoming alarmingly weak as his blood trickled out of his body and onto the floor. Between his waning strangth and the slippery blood that was starting to coat them both, he felt his grip on the thrashing boy start to slip.

"What's this racket?" John could have wept at the familar voice that floated through the door. Of course - Roberts, on one of his regular nightly tours of the ship. The door flung open, and John squinted at the bright light from the lamp in the captain's hand.

"John.. Jess..." Roberts sounded as appropriately startled as the situation warranted. John's arms finally gave up the fight; Jess twisted out of his grasp, running off to the other side of the room.

The lamplight illuminated his look of hatred towards John, and the look of despair towards Roberts; the pieces fell into a very interesting pattern, just before the world went grey.


	7. Chapter 7

Pacing had always been soothing, for Cummabund, but there were limits to its effectiveness. He was close to wearing a groove in the deck, and he did not feel terribly soothed.

It had been surprising, to Cummabund, to see the response of the men when they discovered that their ship's doctor was legitimately ill; they had put aside their japes in favor of genuine concern, setting up a watch in the small operating theater where he was confined, and continually asking their Dread Pirate captain what they could do for him.

As if Cummabund knew.

The knife Jess had used had been none too clean, and the standard conditions of the ship had not helped, either; the doctor's wounds had become substantially infected. Jacob had done the best he could with his limited knowledge, draining the wounds and washing them with the most potent alcohol on board, but they continued to fester. The men could not ask the doctor himself for advice, as the delirium of fever was over him, and he spent his time thrashing and moaning.

Cummabund knew what he had to do. He simply did not want to admit it to himself.

They were headed to the mainland, to a small village that had no particular love for the crown, and had received them well enough in the past; Cummabund ensured his men restricted their affections to the professionals when they paused there, and enough of the pirate's coin went to the local merchants to make the relationship affable, overall.

Jess, currently locked in his room - more for the thought of what the men might do than what he might - would be left there. Cummabund would have to trust the plump matron who ran the local pub to take the gold he gave her and give the lad some schooling - but she had bemoaned to her wenches her lack of children in the past, and word had found its way to Cummabund's ear. The boy would be well enough off.

Off to a normal life? Cummabund had no conception. If the boy really was of the type who preferred men, his life would be difficult; if he were merely a young boy obsessed with his captain, it would be decidedly less difficult. But he could not stay here.

And neither could John.

Cummabund made his way belowdecks to the room where John languished, dismissing the man who stood watch. The man showed some guilty relief - the stench of putrescent flesh permeated the room, and Cummabund had to swallow and steady his stomach before walking to the bed. "John," he said, quietly, pushing the man's shirt aside and wincing at the sight of the pus-covered wounds.

"Crows," John murmured, then sighed and said something else Cummabund couldn't hear, reaching up to scratch at his gashes. Cummabund intercepted his hands and put them aside. He looked sadly at John's feverish, sweaty face. He would not be able to make a proper goodbye, one that John would hear, and he could hardly leave the man to the care of an English doctor with a love letter from a pirate on his person. He would be treated for ills he did not possess.

"I have to leave you, John," Cummabund sighed. "I should never have kept you here. But I was selfish, and wanted you with me - even if I couldn't have you in the way I _truly_ wanted. And now we are both paying the price of my selfishness."

John's lips moved, but no sounds came out. And Cummabund, despite himself, gave into temptation - just a little, just once. They would be ashore in two days, and he would never see John again - even if the man lived (and the thought that he might not gave Cummabund another twinge of guilt). John would never remember this. So what was the harm in leaning forward and pressing his lips to John's feverish ones? Even if John, murmuring in his delirium, moved his lips on Cummabund's, and the captain's tongue found its way into John's mouth, gently exploring?

Cummabund finally, reluctantly, pulled back. "I love you, John," he said, sadly. "And I'll never see you again."

"Walrus..." John muttered, "ships."

"Rest," Cummabund sighed, taking a cloth from the scrap-heap and wetting it from his canteen. The water was no cooler than his body, but it was still cooler than John's forehead, where Cummabund placed it gently.

Five days later, the pirate ship Revenge left port - its holds more full of salted meat, dried fruit, and fresh water, less full of gold pieces, and their complement two men fewer than when they arrived.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a dreary spring day, a typical English June; rain fell steadily, drumming a staccato beat on the roof of the carriage. It was a day to turn up your collar, pull down your hat, and hurry quickly to your place of business.

As far as Bertram Cummabund was concerned, it was as fine a day as could be wished.

He had departed his spacious home earlier that day, waving a cheery greeting to the passing carriage of his nearest neighbors, the Lord and Lady Toth. They had looked everywhere but at him, pretending not to see, and that had only made him more cheerful. One of the better entertainments for him was irritating that smug couple.

The mansion had been purchased, lock, stock, and excessively gaudy furniture, from a young lord who had quickly gambled away his inheritance. Cummabund had explained the money he had to purchase it to his neighbors with an enthusiastic tale of his father, a shop-keeper from London, and the invention they had made... at the mention of 'shop-keeper,' the conversation quickly made its way somewhere different. Oh, if they only knew the source of the money to purchase the property - and of the piles of it that remained - they would happily drown in shop-keepers rather than wave their hullos to a pirate.

Ex-pirate, more precisely. Cummabund had finally reached the point where he decided he was simply tired of the business.

Yes, it was true that the feelings had started not long after a certain ship's doctor had left their company. He had tried, for a few more years, but his heart was no longer in it - and the men could tell. When they had boarded a surrendered merchant ship only to find a sturdy young man with fair hair stowed away belowdecks, leaping out as they raided the stores and crying, "Take me with you" - well, Cummabund had seen his way out.

They had bedded, himself and the young stowaway Ryan, and it had been marvelous and sweet and all that the poets said it would be - but it only reminded Cummabund of what he had lost. So he had confided in Ryan the secret of the Dread Pirate - a reputation passed from person to person, an office that would likely long outlive its first holder, growing happily senile in Patagonia. A chain nearly broken by the death of the man before Cummabund - but he had confided in Jacob, his own first mate, who had kept his confidence and found a new Dread Pirate in Cummabund.

For two years, Cummabund stayed with a fresh ship's company, first mate to the young and dramatic (perhaps overly so) Dread Pirate Roberts. The ocean was kind, the men were well satisfied with the gold that accumulated, and the Dread Pirate solidified his reputation.

"Do you have to go?" Ryan had murmured, that last night, as they lay close together on the small captain's bunk (as one had to, else risk falling to a very hard and uncomfortable floor, an arrangement that pleased them both).

"I'm done with piracy," Cummabund had laughed. He did, indeed, feel joyous at the prospect of leaving - giddy and free, a new life in front of him. He had always loved novelty, and had always stagnated in its absence. "I'm ready to settle down a bit on dry land."

"Don't sound so pleased to be leaving!" Ryan had laughed back, finding the mood contagious. "Here, I'll give you something to remember me by..."

And he had, indeed. They had given each other much to remember. But the next morning found Cummabund's resolve unwavering, and he purchased a pony and cart at the docks to carry his rather extensive treasure in search of a home.

A home he had found, and had lived there, rather pleased, until the day he received an unexpected letter in the post.

As he had nothing better to do for the ride into London, he pulled out the letter again. The writing was crude, and the misspellings frequent, but Cummabund could understand the gist perfectly.

"Deer Sir:

I have som news for ye that ye may lik. I was in London the past wek, and think I seen a man we now wel. I foller him to a fiz[scratched out] med[scratched out] doktor place in Marylebone [painstakingly written, as if copied off of a sign]. I din look to see if he had stabs in im, but he look like the very man.

Jaycob"

An address was scrawled below, one that Cummabund had given to his driver. Cummabund stared out of the window again, his heart leaping as he saw the city in the distance draw ever-nearer.

He warned the coachman that he might be a some time, and the man nodded and clambered down to care for the horse. Of course, thought Cummabund, there were any number of scenarios that would result in him being rather less than some time - many of them quite likely.

He mounted the staircase of the small stone building. The first story had a small plaque beside the door:

Mme Faunteneux  
French Lessons

He climbed up another story, his heart sinking. It lept up and threatened to choke him at the sight of the second floor sign, a brass plaque that was painstakingly polished:

Dr. John Watson, MD  
Physician

It took Cummabund a moment to catch his breath, which wanted to twine around his throat and just stay there. He finally wrestled it under control, and opened the door.

The door opened onto a small waiting-room. The only other occupant was a woman behind a desk in the corner, her reddish-blonde hair done up in a tight bun. She looked up as Cummabund entered. "Good morning, sir - do you have an appointment?"

"I..." Cummabund swallowed. "I don't, actually, but I was hoping the good doctor might have some time to see me nonetheless?"

"What is the problem?" the woman asked, rising from her seat.

"Heart trouble," Cummabund replied, and his heart thoroughly agreed, bouncing about in his chest like a zuggernaut.

"Sit down, I'll ask if he can see you," she replied, slipping through a door at the back of the room.

Cummabund sat, trying to control his breathing and his heartbeat, both of which were utterly out of his control. The dark colors and soothing decor of the room helped, but he was still not quite himself when the door at the back of the room re-opened. The young woman held the door partly open, saying, calmly, "The doctor will see you now."

Remember, Cummabund told himself, it might not be the same man. He might be married. He might be bloody well upset at being abducted and assaulted, so many years ago. He might even report Cummabund to the authorities - but even as those thoughts were occurring, Cummabund stepped into the room, and doubt melted away. Every other rational thought melted away, as well.

It was most definitely John, frozen halfway through the act of rising from his chair. His hair was shot with grey, and his face was more lined and careworn than it had been - but it was utterly, indubitably the same man. An inane grin crossed Cummabund's face, and stayed stubbornly there.

"Well," John straightened and gathered himself, his look wary. "It's been some time."

"Yes." The grin persisted, and Cummabund decided he would soon be in need of a heart specialist, at this rate. "It has."

"What brings you here?" John's fists clenched and released, and Cummabund was briefly elated to see no ring on them. He tried to remind himself to be calm. John did not appear... overjoyed to see him. The man's face was carefully neutral.

"I've become an honest man. I've stopped being a pirate. I have a little place in the country..." Cummabund had to pause and breathe.

"Well, that's good," John replied. "But I meant, what brings you _here_."

"I wanted to see you." Uncertainty finally got a good solid grip on Cummabund, and the grin fell from his face. "I didn't know if you were alive."

"Ten years, give or take? That's a long time."

"Yes... I didn't think it would help you to have your health inquired after by a pirate," Cummabund said, lamely. The enthusiasm at seeing John was starting to drain out of him, leaving him weak and shaky. His weakness was not helped by John unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, baring his chest to reveal two jagged white scars that slashed across it, slanting to his ribs. Cummabund tried to focus on the scars and not the chest - still firm and solid, punctuated by two ruddy nipples.

"I barely survived," John replied. "I was ill for two months before I started to recover."

"I"m sorry," Cummabund murmured, feeling an urgent need for a chair. He grasped the nearest one and sat in it heavily. "I know it's my fault. I abducted you..."

"Two years of my life on a ship," John sighed, letting go of his shirt and letting the tails fall around his sides. "With pirates."

"Yes," Cummabund replied, helplessly. "I'm sorry. I wish I could take it back." Even after it left his lips, he knew it was a lie. He didn't want to take it back. He didn't want events to be different, to have never known this man, even for that short time - though it left the man miserable and Cummabund endlessly unsatisfied.

John leaned back on his desk, considering Cummabund. "I do remember those two months. I spent them in the house of a country doctor in Littleham. He was quite skilled, actually. He and his wife were most kind. She read to me, thinking I would not remember, that it would soothe me to hear a voice even if I could not understand. I remembered, however, each book, each line. I did not lose my memory during my delirium, even though that is typical."

"Ah," Cummabund sighed. He looked up at John, the man's blue eyes dark in the limited light in the room.

"I did not lose _any_ of my memory," John repeated.

"Ah," Cummabund repeated, and his heart began to leap about in his chest again with the realization. John's delirium. His own statement of love. John's murmured words. _The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things..._

"Is that why you returned?" John asked.

"Of course," Cummabund sighed. "I was hoping you'd still be alive. I was hoping you'd have forgiven me, and beyond that - I haven't dared to hope." His lips were dry. "I had a letter from Jacob, last night, telling me that he had seen you. I had to know."

"And now you know." John stepped closer, kneeling in front of Cummabund's chair.

"I do," Cummabund replied, and John was too close to resist kissing him, to press his lips to John's, to put his hand on John's bare chest, reveling in the feel of that warm skin, John's hand going to his own cheek, kissing him back steadily and firmly. Cummabund's heart started to thunder again, only instead of bouncing about in its previous giddy anarchy, it thudded firmly and strongly, to the beat of _Home, Home_.


End file.
